


Monsters Don't Hide in Closets |Levi|

by ThatVintageChick



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, Manga & Anime, Reader-Insert, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 18:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatVintageChick/pseuds/ThatVintageChick
Summary: One evening, shortly after [Y/N] moves into her family's new home, she discovers the place may come with more than a little baggage. With a certain good-looking ghost haunting her room, [Y/N] finds she wants take on the world. And he may just be the monster to empower her rage.





	Monsters Don't Hide in Closets |Levi|

_(adj.) describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted—the powerful, personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired._

**CHAPTER ONE**

**September 10, 2015**

**Senior Year**

“Here,” the man said, giving me his plastic umbrella handle. “Keep it, alright?” Autumn air sucked his reddening nose, and my eyes glanced at the covering held above my head. Looking back, I watched the dying crumbs of sun-rays coil about his irises, and its reﬂection ﬂared across the grassy space between us, morphing into a sardonic glower. The kind of visage that spat, _‘I am better than you are, but I am going to be generous since you’re too stupid to own an umbrella.’_

I could have been home, but Captain Know-It-All was silently judging me as the alternate.

Cursorily, I avoid his grating mien and nudge the object back into his palm. Unsuccessfully, I might add. _I shouldn’t be having to deal with this. Not now of all days._ My feet could be digging into Mom’s oriental rugs on top our newly furnished parquet flooring. Maria, our dog, could be tickling my chin with her black-feathered fur as we sat in Dad’s good birch armchair, squared behind our bookshelf. I imagine her ugly old face, slobbering me in kisses with her busted lower lip and green-eyes too large for her cranium, impishly eying me. It might’ve squeezed away her good-looks and brain cells, too. I would make jokes about that and her ugliness, and as Mom would forever do, flippantly voice how a former-ugly-baby shouldn’t be a hypocrite. I would be warm—and even better—not drenched by Mother Nature’s tantrum. But, of course not. Our stupid pipes burst and Dad ordered me to stand in the midst of a hurricane.

Dissuading him was pointless. We needed water. Almost everything Mom cooks with—aside from her yucky salads—require a pinch of the clouds moisture. _Had to live in a desolate farm town, didn’t we? To ‘save the environment’ when frostbite and creepy monsters in the woods take my life. Fantastic. Would it be that oh-so terrible to have McDonald's every now and then?_

In the end, the decision was finalized without my input. _Like everything else from the past couple of months, right?_ Looking away from my water-catching-activity, I took in the broken-in view. My fingers were aching and cold against the glass jar. Knife-like moonlight obliterated through raindrops. Stinging and cold, melted into the foliage pallid blankets of muddy green. I leaned my heel against oak with the glass jar becoming heavier by the millisecond. Rain heaved through the leaves above my head. Loud drumming sounds echoed, and the pavement glowed by dim yellow street lights.

A few minutes passed and I placed the jar down to rest my arms, idly caressing my stone necklace near my breastbone. When Mr. Territorial Asshole showed up, interrupting the storms tangent with booted footfalls and the soil barely muffling the heaviness. “I couldn’t…” I’d said, now trying a new tactic of ‘lets-shove-the-umbrella-into-his-damn-chest.’ I heard a sloppy outbreath escape his nose, and my head quaked from side-to-side. “A stranger taking pity upon me…I’m sorry, but”—with one decisive motion, it clonked the man in the head. Allowing me to release it while he grappled for the handle—“no thank you.” _Please, please, keep your creepy umbrella away from me._

“Tch, it’s not that complicated. Your hair looks like crusted vomit, and your face resembles a rabid squirrel. Pity is warranted.” Rolling my eyes, I took a step backward and felt my back against the tree. His emerald North Face jacket now wet, I took note of its tethered rips from within the fabric on his right sleeve. Discolored in soiled blotches of dirt and gravel. I watched him repentantly rub at the stain with his thumb. _Oh, crap. A possible germ-freak suspect off Criminal Minds._

“That’s a sweet way to compliment my hair, strange old man.” I huffed, peeling my sight from his mini-freak out. The wet bark started to gnaw at my back. It made everything feel like Dad’s dirty rags. I watched his cloudy skyline eyes glare at me, then. Before I could return the look, his eyes eluded away from my own.

“I’m not some ‘strange old man,’ idiot,” he challenged. “I’m twenty-four.”

“Sure,” I say, my voice erupting into a chortling fit. “And I thought the answer was forty-two.” He stared at the shaggy, mud-and-rain-spewed ground as though begging for patience. A cold sweat trickled down my hairline, then, but his gaze didn’t help stifle another giggling cycle.

“Whatever. Just take the fucking umbrella.”

“If I wanted one, I would ask. I won’t borrow it from some psycho control-freak.” Masked under raven-haired bangs, I watched his gaze flick to the jar that I was in current process of retrieving. “Yet,” he countered, “The strange psycho one isn’t the lady out in a midnight storm with a water jug?”

“There have been stranger things,” I giggled, lifting a finger to resume my necklace tracing. “Like, you know, an old man wandering across the roadway at midnight.”

“Brat, take the umbrella, will you?” He groaned, clearly fed up with my ostensible stupidity. Raindrops creased his hair entirely now, and shinned a little from his Porsche Macan’s head beams from behind. “I can’t borrow anything without knowing your name.”

“It’ll be Levi to you,” he appended. “But you aren’t ‘borrowing’ it, brat. You’re keeping it. No more derailing.” Right then, a barricade of torrent winds hit us both. I shivered. I watched him, then, outstretch his arm. Again. _He is not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, is he?_ I tried one last time.

“Okay, Levi,” I slowly started, fidgeting with the hem of the jug. “I understand you may be one to fetish yourself with charity. However, you can’t help someone who doesn’t need help. A little wetness hasn’t killed anyone. Now, make yourself scarce and get off my property. Go somewhere you can’t wave a pointy object near my eyeball.” As the sentence flew into the brittle air, I mentally face palmed and all my inner organs seemed to tremble at the cold. I could hear the whistle coming on in my beginning to drip nostrils. _Crappy body, you’re giving me away. It’s just a little fucking rain._ _Pull yourself together, lady._ “If I don’t take it, what will happen? You’ll arrest me?” I chuckled, bringing my coat-collar to graze my chin. Levi’s dry exhales were dragon steam, and he muttered, “That could be arranged.”

This earned an eye roll from me. “Well,” I said, moving my mouth to replicate a strained-pout. “I ought to be leaving now. Sorry for keeping you, strange man.” _You’re trying to goad me to accept, you prick. Not today._

“It's Levi—”

“Yeah, yeah.” His cobalt blue eyes took on something unreadable, then. Before I could dwell on it, Levi took ahold of my arm and drew me in a little too close for comfort; his breathing ruffling the stray [y/c/h] hair strands near my cheeks. It gave birth to new hatching goosebumps on my nape.

“Stop right there, little shit.” He bit off the syllables like he ripped a grenade cap with his teeth, and my hands felt hot. A sour heat sucking my throat dry. Wordlessly, his hand slid from my arm and took ahold of my wrist—and when I thought he was going to pull me inward, with an action possibly more space restricting—his black leather hand _forced_ the goddamn umbrella into my own. My mouth opened to protest, but Levi and his profile of assurance, were already trekking back towards his posh car. His feet squishing against the ground in thick, loud stomps. I let my fingers roll into a loose fist, and stomped my foot equally as hard. Levi was far too consumed with his car, opening the door, and inspecting something in the seat to acknowledge my sulking.

“You’re such a persistent old man!” I called, watching volleys of rain engulf the road. It was practically swollen from the strong, ropy currents. “Here, I believed, you Sugar Daddies were taught to be gentlemen. My mistake for not realizing the word ‘no’ was never learnt in your high-class vocabulary!”

Levi titled his head. “May I offer a rebuttal if you’re done your pathetic outburst?”

“Yes.” I pulled a face, mopping a few straddling raindrops from the bridge of my nose. Halfway into his car door, he deadpanned at my direction. “Is this is your way of asking to be my gold digger? If so, your request is duly noted.”

My jaw was getting wet on that familiar stretch of blacktop, as he revved his engine, and disappeared into the storm.


End file.
